Flying into Auckland, I witness the most stunning sunrise that I have ever seen. The ocean is the blackest of blacks, rising to meet the deep orange of the sun, and then fading into the blue of the night sky. A phrase that I've heard before, "indigo hour" flashes through my brain, and I can only stare in amazement, captivated by it's accuracy.
My departure from Honolulu began in a rush as,in typical Duck & Cover fashion, a great deal has been left to the last minute. "Oh surely there will just be heaps of time today" I thought to myself friday morning, as I left laundry, shopping, and packing to the last possible moment. I imagined myself sitting on my packed bags, a ball of anticipation, staring at the moments slinking by on the clock, all the while waiting for the moment that I would leave for the airport. Of course, as anyone who tends toward procrastination can attest to, this was not the case at all. Long story short, there were things. Things that needed to be done, things that required immediate attention, and none of these things had any correlation to laundry, packing, or the twiddling of thumbs. Then, of course, with blatant violation of the afore mentioned pinkie swear, I bought a pack of Camel cigarettes, and smoked my first cigarette in months outside of my office, all the while thinking "I am SO running behind schedule." (I also had the thought that I was a little sick to my stomach, followed by the thought that I should have another immediately. "If I leave for home in ten minutes, I will totally have time, if I budget 2 hours for laundry, and etc.")
After some rushing, I managed to throw things together fairly well (though truth be told, I do question some of the things that I chose to pack) and make it to the airport in time to wander the Duty Free store in a vicodin haze, asking the attendant to open the Hermes kiosk for me so that I could peruse cologne and overpriced luxury goods. After meandering out sans purchase, I perused the scene to steal a moment with my new best friend, the cigarette. No smoking signs were posted prevalently over every free inch of the airport, with not even so much a smoking lounge to be found. "This can't go down well with the Japanese", I think to myself. Cigarette nixed, I decide to settle for the next best thing: a drink or four, just to take the edge off the flight. Again, nothing to be found. I am baffled and a little irritated, when I see a vendor selling icecream, and think bitterly to myself that this is SOOO American. God forbid that you have a drink or a smoke, but we'll encourage you to become as fat as possible.
Stumbling to the airport bookstore, I, amazingly, run into a friend, of whom I've been thinking lately, and we are on the same flight! We settle in for a long chat about missed flights, the nonexistence of coincidence, and global sustainability, with an emphasis on it's applicabilty to the Hawaiian Islands.
Fast forward many hours (and past the feature length films "A Night at the Museum" and "Stranger Than Fiction"), and just past the afore menitoned amazing sunrise to breakfast. Not much to mention aside from the fact that if someone on an airplane offers you "pancakes or 'cheesey' omelet'" always, always opt for the pancakes. They may not be brilliant, but they are most definitely not a tubular eggy structure assembled many hours and many miles ago. In short, it is neither the omelet of your imagination, nor your youth. Also, unlike dinner, the Air New Zealand staff will not ply you with a bottomless glass of wine, as your passing out is no longer in their interests. Now is the time to be awake; there is adventure to be had! (Though I only declined the champagne because no one else had asked that the bottle be opened...)
We arrive in Auckland, and my friend Avril and I browse the duty free and pass through currency exchange. We part at immigration, she heading to the New Zealand passport holders line (because she is) and I head for the international line. We promise to meet at baggage claim, but never meet again. I talk to an adorable hipster boy, attempting to declare my almonds; he tells me to tell the people in the "brown shirts", which I do, and they are, at best, bemused.
I pass through customs easily and quickly, looking from side to side for James. Behind me, I hear a voice say "Oh, I don't think he's coming...." There's James, and the adventure begins.
Pinky swears broken, we share several cigarettes outside the car; catching up foregone in favour of planning our trip into Auckland. Where do we go, how do we begin? What does it matter? We have all the time in the world.
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